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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28674258">all we can do is keep breathing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/specialagentsergio/pseuds/specialagentsergio'>specialagentsergio</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, It'll have a happy ending i promise, Multi, Post-Prison Spencer Reid, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Substance Abuse, description of a panic attack/ptsd episode, the rest of the team is referred to in this just not enough that i think i should tag it, wow what a cheery bunch of tags</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:40:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,436</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28674258</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/specialagentsergio/pseuds/specialagentsergio</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s out of prison now, but your boyfriend is very much not okay. When he isn’t reinstated, he spirals down quickly, and you don’t know how to help him out of it. </p><p>(or, spencer relapses post-prison and goes to rehab)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Spencer Reid/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. paralyzed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>disclaimer that while i have both been a patient at a residential treatment center and currently work at one, i don’t have substance use disorder and we don’t treat it specifically at my current workplace. my experience is also all in adolescent centers rather than adult ones, so this won’t be entirely accurate.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nothing’s been the same since Mexico.</p><p>You weren’t naïve. You hadn’t been expecting things to go right back to normal when he got home from prison. You were prepared for Spencer to struggle. And you were ready to do whatever it took to help him recover from this trauma.</p><p>But you had never expected that that dedication would lead you to here—sitting on the couch at 11 o’clock at night, tired but wide awake, waiting for him to return from god knows where. A few cardboard boxes filed with the last of his things are stacked neatly beside you.</p><p>Spencer’s six-year sobriety coin sits in your hand. You’d found it in the trash a few days after he got home. You had tried to talk him into keeping it—"<em>you were drugged; it’s not your fault”</em>—but he had refused, leading you to believe there was something he wasn’t telling you. But you hadn’t pushed him on it, as that would just be a surefire way to make him double down on keeping it to himself.</p><p>He didn’t want the coin, but you kept it, hidden from his sight, hoping he’d want it back someday.</p><p>Now, three months later, you weren’t sure that day was going to come.</p><p>He had managed to get by for six weeks. He’d been plagued by nightmares and suffered multiple panic attacks, but he’d pushed through the cravings, gone to all his mandated therapy appointments, and attended refresher courses on procedures and firearms. He did everything the bureau required to consider reinstating him.</p><p>The day of the meeting, Spencer had seemed a little nervous, but stable. He’d gotten a good night’s sleep, free of bad dreams, and he had given you a kiss goodbye that felt just like the ones he’d always given you before. Then he walked out the door, and you didn’t hear from him for the rest of the day.</p><p>You got the news from Emily. The bureau had decided not to reinstate him <em>“at this time”. </em>They recommended that he reapply in six months, but for now, he wouldn’t be getting his badge and gun back.</p><p>Your initial reaction had been relief. Although you had shown Spencer nothing but encouragement, you weren’t sure he would ever be ready to go back, let alone so soon. You didn’t even know why he was reapplying. He’d worked for them for over a decade and become a well-respected agent, but when he needed help, the bureau had abandoned him and refused to help him prove his innocence. You had been so furious you could barely speak when JJ told you their decision.</p><p>Spencer didn’t share your sentiment—or if he did, he didn’t want to face it. On some level, you understood. The BAU was his home before you were, and you could imagine that after the chaos of the last three months, he desperately wanted his life to just go back to normal. So even though you weren’t sure that this was the best decision for him to make—especially since he seemed to have barely thought about it at all—you’d supported him. Whatever he needed, right?</p><p>You tried calling him after talking to Emily, but he didn’t answer. It didn’t worry you <em>too </em>much at first—Spencer often needed space to process things on his own before talking about it. You wouldn’t be able to have a proper conversation until you were off work anyways.</p><p>It was around six when the anxiety kicked in. You’d tried calling him a few more times throughout the day to no avail. You hadn’t even gotten a text back. Then you started getting messages from his team, asking how he was doing and if he was okay. They hadn’t heard from him either.</p><p>When you’d gotten home, you had immediately looked to the chair Spencer always left his bag on. It was empty. You’d looked through all the rooms anyways, trying to ignore what your gut was telling you he was off doing.</p><p>It was a few more hours before he stumbled through the front door, his eyes glassy and footing unstable. You stood in front of him, putting your hands on his upper arms to keep him steady. When he had caught your eyes, he had started to cry.</p><p>He’d been more or less inconsolable for the rest of the night, blubbering out apologies as you guided him through the motions of getting into bed. He’d clung to you and you’d murmured reassurances against his skin and into his hair that you still loved him, that you didn’t think any less of him, that he would be okay. You had truly thought he would be at the time.</p><p>But he wasn’t okay, not at all. He quickly became stuck in a cycle of using, promising it was the last time, staying clean for a little while, then relapsing. You had pleaded with him to get help, but he’d become... <em>aggressive </em>when you suggested inpatient treatment.</p><p>“Don’t <em>ever </em>say that,” he’d snarled. “I’m not my mother.”</p><p>Then later that same night, he had crawled into bed next to you at 2 AM, curled up against your side, and begged in a trembling voice, “please don’t send me away.”</p><p>You haven’t had the courage to bring it up again until now.</p><p>Four days ago, you hit your breaking point. You’d come home from work and found him limp on the couch, barely breathing, a syringe and little glass vial next to him. You’d dialed 911 as you ran into the bedroom, yanked open your bedside table, and pulled out the auto injectable dose of Narcan you’d acquired a few weeks ago just in case. Thanks to that, Spencer was conscious again by the time the EMTs arrived. He resisted being taken to the ER, alternating between scowling at them and looking at you with pleading eyes.</p><p>But you didn’t give in. When he had checked himself out of the hospital an hour later (you had refused to do it for him), you had driven him home, but the entire time you were formulating a plan. You’d realized that you were padding his rock bottom, and you couldn’t do it anymore.</p><p>So now here you are, waiting on the couch. You hope it will work this time. About a month ago you had tried staging an intervention with his team, but as soon as he saw them, he’d walked right back out of the room and you hadn’t seen him again for nearly two days. </p><p>It’s another hour before he arrives home, and it takes his drug-fogged mind a full minute to process what he’s seeing. His voice is hoarse when he asks, “You’re leaving?”</p><p>“No,” you reply. “You are.”</p><p>Spencer sways slightly on his feet as he thinks. “You’re kicking me out,” he realizes.</p><p>You try to ignore the prick of tears in your eyes and focus on keeping your voice steady. “Yes. I am.”</p><p>His bottom lip starts to tremble. “You... you can’t do this,” he whispers.</p><p>“No, I can,” you say. You take a deep breath before you continue. “But more than that, I have to.”</p><p>For the first time in months, Spencer doesn’t try and hide his tears from you. He cries openly. His back hits the wall and he slides down it, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It’s unbelievably hard to watch.</p><p>You stand and approach him cautiously, almost as if he’s an animal that you don’t want to spook, reaching into your back pocket and holding out a keycard. “I booked you a room for the night at that motel a few streets over, so you can... sleep it off. But after that, you’re on your own.”</p><p>He looks up at you with those big brown eyes that you love so much, but they don’t look like they used to. Now they’re bloodshot and his pupils are pinpricks. “(Y/N), please, please don’t do this,” he whimpers. “Please, this is the last time. I won’t do it again, I promise.”</p><p>You just shake your head. His words are nothing new. “Your car is already in the parking lot there with the rest of your things.”</p><p>It’s like a switch flips, his broken expression contorting into a glare. “Fine,” he practically growls. He pushes your hand away and staggers to his feet. “I don’t want that shitty motel room. I’ll just go stay with JJ. <em>She </em>actually cares about me.”</p><p>You expected him to lash out like this, but the words still sting. “You really think JJ’s going to let you be around her boys like this?” you ask quietly.</p><p>The anger on his face is offset some by the tears and snot still running down it.. And you know he knows that you’re right. “So this is it, huh?” he says coldly, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Six years together, all we’ve been through. It’s just over now.”</p><p>You retreat back to the couch, placing the keycard on top of the boxes. “That’s actually up to you.”</p><p>His laugh is derisive. “You could have fooled me!”</p><p>You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I don’t want this to be permanent. You can stay now, or come back, on one condition.”</p><p>Spencer folds his arms over his chest defensively. “Which is?”</p><p>“You have to agree to check into a treatment center.”</p><p>The look of betrayal on his face breaks your heart. Tears spill out of your eyes before you can stop them; you swipe them away and take a deep breath to try and hold the rest of them off.</p><p>It’s a while before he speaks again, and his voice is quiet when he does. “How can you say that.” It’s not a question.</p><p>“It’s what you need, Spencer,” you answer. “You’re not coping with what happened to you. Not just prison, everything that’s happening to your mom, too—”</p><p>“Don’t talk about my mother!”</p><p>You flinch. He’s never raised his voice at you before. <em>It’s the drugs, </em>you try to remind yourself. <em>It’s just the drugs, he doesn’t really mean it. </em></p><p>He storms forward and you scurry out of the way on instinct. He scoffs. “What, you think I’m going to hurt you?”</p><p>“You’re scaring me right now,” you admit quietly.</p><p>Spencer tries to cover up the hurt with a scowl, but you can still see it in his eyes. “You really think that little of me?”</p><p>You open your mouth to speak, then close it again. You don’t know what to say. Spencer would never hurt you, you know that without a doubt. But the Spencer you know, the man you fell in love with... he’s not the same person when he’s using. And with how high and emotional he is right now, you don’t know what to expect. “I... I don’t know anymore, Spencer,” you answer honestly.</p><p>He shrugs. “Maybe you’re right to think that. I did some awful things in there, you know.” He says it matter-of-factly, but you recognize it as a glimpse of one of the things he’s using the drugs to escape from, one of the things he won’t talk about.</p><p>He gathers up the boxes in his arms; you pretend not to notice him pocketing the keycard. You’re worried about him carrying them safely in his current state and almost reach out to steady him before recognizing from the tension in his shoulders that touching him right now will only make things worse.</p><p>He stops at the door and you hurry to open it for him. “I really believed you loved me, you know,” he whispers, the anger falling off of his face.</p><p>The words are like a blow to the stomach; it knocks the breath out of your lungs. “I do,” you choke out. “I do love you.”</p><p>Spencer doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head and walks out the door.</p><p>He doesn’t look back.</p>
<hr/><p>It’s been the longest two weeks of your life.</p><p>You haven’t heard from Spencer since the night he left. You weren’t expecting him to come around to the idea of rehab quickly, but you thought he might try and call you within a few days and try to talk his way out of the hole he’d found himself in.</p><p>He didn’t.</p><p>All you could do was wait, and hope that that night wasn’t going to end up being the last time you saw him alive. In a way, it was worse than it had been when he was in prison, because this time, you were the reason he was gone.</p><p>His team has mixed feelings on what you’ve done.</p><p>JJ is mad. She asks, “how could you?”, and, “you really think <em>this</em> will work?” You try to be patient with her—you know she’s so upset because she loves him. She already lost her older sister and now she’s scared of losing the man who’s practically her brother. But when she (perhaps unintentionally) insinuates that you did this because you’d just had enough of him, you snap, telling her she has no right to say that when you <em>know </em>she wouldn’t let him stay at her house while he’s using. She keeps her thoughts to herself after that.</p><p>Emily is sympathetic. She was there the first time he started using and had subsequently gotten her head bitten off when she tried to reach out and help him. “I know how hard it is to get through to him when he’s... like this. You just let me know if I can help at all.”</p><p>Luke is much the same. He’s had his own struggles with PTSD and understands the toll it takes on everyone, not just the one with it. He’s always happy to offer you some time with Roxy, because he’s right—things really do feel better when you’re petting her.</p><p>Rossi isn’t... indifferent, exactly. He just doesn’t seem to have much of an opinion one way or the other. You think it’s because he doesn’t know what an alternative would be. For all his experience in psychology, he’s unsure of how to help Spencer.</p><p>You don’t know Matt very well yet, but he’s kind to you, even going so far as to bring you a dish of his wife’s lasagna.</p><p>Penelope is an absolute angel with her warm hugs and baked goods. She keeps an eye on Spencer’s cell phone location for you, in the event that he ends up at a police precinct or hospital.</p><p>Out of everyone, you like talking to Tara the most. She’s so supportive and understanding. You feel like she’s the only one who truly knows what the past few months have been like for you. She just <em>gets </em>it, having lived with a partner with substance use disorder before. “You’re doing the best you can and that’s all that matters,” she tells you. She even goes to a Narcotics Anonymous family meeting with you.</p><p>It’s day fourteen without Spencer, and it doesn’t feel much different. It feels bleak. You go to work and run errands, but you only manage it because it’s habit.</p><p>You’re rinsing off your plate from dinner when there’s a knock on the door. Your heart leaps into your throat. You aren’t expecting anyone. You try—in vain—not to hope too hard as you go to answer it. It could just be someone dropping by on a whim, or, god forbid, a police officer with bad news.</p><p>
  <em>Please, Spencer. Please let it be you. </em>
</p><p>When you look through the peephole, you’re unable to hold back a sob of relief. His eyes are fixed on the doormat so you can’t quite see his face, but you’d recognize that head of hair anywhere, even in its current unwashed and disheveled state. You take a few deep breaths before opening the door, for his sake. You crying all over him is likely the last thing he wants or needs.</p><p>He doesn’t look up when you open the door, and you realize he’s waiting for you to make the first move.</p><p>“Spencer,” you say softly.</p><p>It’s a few more moments before he responds. “I’ll do it,” he finally mutters; you can just barely hear him.</p><p>Your breath catches in your chest. “You’ll do what?” you ask.</p><p>He glances up then, a look of annoyance flashing across his face.</p><p>“I’m not trying to be difficult,” you say, voice shaky from the effort of holding back tears. “I just... I need to hear you say it.”</p><p>He sighs and looks back down, tugging on the ends of his sleeves. “I’ll... I’ll go to... to re—rehab.”</p><p>Tension you didn’t even know you were holding in your body melts away. You step to the side. “Come in,” you whisper.</p><p>He shuffles inside. When you turn back from closing the door, he’s just standing still in the middle of the room. You get a better look at him now. His clothes are rumpled and his hair is an absolute mess, tangled and dirty. It doesn’t look like he’s had a shower or shave for at least a week—you figure he’s probably been sleeping in his car. His face is pale and his hands are trembling; as you move closer, you can see a light sheen of sweat on his face, leading you to believe that he’s currently sober and starting to experience withdrawal symptoms.</p><p>You touch his arm gently and he makes a distressed whining sound. You guide him to sit on the couch. When you sit next to him, he looks at you with teary eyes. You open your arms in an invitation and he collapses into you, bursting into tears. “’m sorry,” he stutters out between sobs. “I—I didn’ mean it. I... ‘m so s—sorry, (Y/N).”</p><p>You cry too, holding him tight against you. “I know, baby,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I know.”</p>
<hr/><p>Spencer’s mostly nonverbal for his intake process. Whether it’s by choice or not is something you’re unsure of. In a private room a few hallways away from the main ward, you’re introduced to the admissions supervisor, Susan, whose voice you recognize from the phone calls you’d made to get him into one of the beds here. You also meet Spencer’s new therapist, Lara. She has a kind face and seems to have a good sense of humor. You just hope Spencer will like her.</p><p>You’re both given paperwork to read through and sign, as he’s on your health insurance now. Naturally, he’s done with them before you’ve finished the first page. Susan is taken aback. “Oh. Um, sir, we do need you to actually read this paperwork,” she says.</p><p>Spencer folds his arms and stares down at the carpet. “I did.”</p><p>“He, uh, he can speed read,” you explain. She still looks skeptical, so you add, “I’m serious. He reread <em>War and Peace </em>on the drive here.”</p><p>He doesn’t talk again until everything’s in order and you’re given five minutes alone to say goodbye. “I don’t want to do this,” he whispers.</p><p>“Is it okay if I touch you?” you ask. When he nods, you pull at his arms gently until they relax and fall open, then take one of his hands and squeeze it. “I don’t want to, either. I’m so tired of being away from you. But...” You take a deep breath. “But I also don’t want to bury you. You know this is what you need, right?”</p><p>He shrugs, refusing to meet your eyes. You can’t quite tell what that means—whether he agrees but wishes that wasn’t the case, or if he’s only doing this to appease you. You hope it’s the former. While it’s a possibility that this might not work either way, you feel like that’s more likely to happen if he isn’t doing this for <em>himself </em>as well, if he doesn’t <em>want </em>to get better.</p><p>But it’s out of your hands now. All you can do is trust in the people here to take care of him and that they want what’s best for him.</p><p>You put your hand on his cheek and turn his head towards you, trying to get him to look at you. His words from <em>that </em>night run through your head—<em>I really believed you loved me</em>. When he glances up, you seize the moment.</p><p>“I love you, Spencer. So much. If there’s just one thing you can trust in right now, please let it be that,” you plead.</p><p>He sniffles and you <em>think </em>you see a nod from him, but you can’t be sure. And it hurts a bit—you’re not used to him not saying “I love you” back. You can’t dwell on that now, though. You’ve only got a few minutes left before you have to leave him.</p><p>You stand, pulling him up with you. “Can I hu—” you start, but you’re cut off by him lunging forward and clinging to you. You comfort him as best as you can, running one hand up and down his back and using the other to cradle the back of his head as he cries into your neck, muttering incomprehensible words against your skin.</p><p>When the door opens, his entire body tenses against you. “Spencer,” you say gently, trying to stop your voice from wavering too much. “You have to let go now.”</p><p>He doesn’t budge. If anything, he holds onto you tighter. “Baby—“ you start.</p><p>“No,” he says suddenly, his voice louder than you’ve heard it in days. “No, I can’t—I won’t—”</p><p>Before you know it, he’s twisted around to stand behind you. You open and close your mouth a few times, startled and unsure what to say. “Spencer, what—what’s wrong?”</p><p>“No,” he repeats, shaking his head. “I can’t do it again. I—I won’t.” Then he starts to rub at one of his eyes in the way you’ve seen so many times since he came home from prison and it hits you—he feels like he’s getting locked up again.</p><p>A glance at the door shows expressions of sympathy on Susan and Lara’s faces. What with the “war on drugs” sending addicts to prison, this probably isn’t the first time they’ve seen a reaction like this.</p><p>You doubt any of their previous patients were framed for murder and had their mother kidnapped by a vengeful psychopath, though.</p><p>Spencer’s entire body is trembling when you look back at him, and it’s not from the lingering withdrawal symptoms. It’s heartbreaking, but it only affirms your belief that he needs to be here. It’s clear that he can’t tolerate what he feels and what he knows without turning to self-destructive coping mechanisms.</p><p>“Take me home,” he whimpers. “Take me home, please. I want to go home.”</p><p>You swallow hard. “I can’t.”</p><p>“But they’re gonna hurt me,” he cries. “They’re gonna hurt me because I hurt them; don’t you care if I get hurt?”</p><p>You think you know what he’s talking about. You don’t know the details—Spencer wouldn’t let Emily or JJ tell you—but you do know he was hurt in prison by the other inmates. You had seen the bruises yourself. And then you’d heard that some of the inmates were poisoned. He’s a graduate chemist—you’d put it together. You don’t know why he did it, but you assume that he hadn’t had much of a choice. </p><p>“They’re not here, Spencer.” You try to stop him from scratching so hard at his eyes, but he flinches at your touch. “They’re not here; they can’t hurt you anymore,” you repeat instead.</p><p>Lara comes up to your side. “Let us take care of him, okay?”</p><p><em>Oh</em>, but you don’t want to. Spencer’s <em>so </em>upset and you can’t bear the thought of leaving him like this, not when all you want to do is hold him and never let go. It’s what you’ve wanted since the moment he stepped out of Millburn. But isn’t this the whole point of bringing him here? You can’t help him on your own. You have to let him go.</p><p>When Lara coaxes you to take a step back, Spencer makes the most awful, wounded noise. “Don’t leave me, please,” he begs. “Don’t leave me again.”</p><p>You press the back of your hand to your mouth to hold back a sob. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” you manage to say. “And I’ll visit you as soon as I can.”</p><p>“No, it’s not o—okay,” he protests, his voice breaking. “It’s not—I—” He presses his hands into his eyes and backs up until he’s in the corner. He drops to the floor and curls up, hugging his knees to his chest and burying his face in them.</p><p>Susan is able to get you to take a few more steps back; Lara takes a step forward, in Spencer’s direction.</p><p>“Um, don’t—don’t touch him,” you stutter out, desperate to help somehow. “It’ll—it’ll just make it worse.”</p><p>“I won’t,” she assures you. And she doesn’t—instead she sits on the floor several feet away from him; not close enough to be threatening but not far enough that he’d be completely unaware of her presence. It makes you feel a little better, because that’s what you do for him at home.</p><p>You let Susan guide you out of the room and to the entrance. “He’ll be okay,” she tells you as you walk. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and Lara’s fantastic. It’s actually a good opportunity to start building therapeutic rapport.”</p><p>You just nod as she talks, not quite listening to what she’s saying. You just keep thinking of his face when you took a step away from him, and how small his voice sounded. It’s a storm of emotions inside of you, but among them is... relief. You don’t have to worry about keeping him safe anymore.</p><p>Leaving him in that room, terrified, surrounded by people he doesn’t know, is one of the hardest things you’ve ever done. You just hope it will be worth it.</p>
<hr/><p>It’s Spencer’s thirty-sixth birthday. You have the day off, but the alarm still sounds early in the morning. You rub your eyes and stretch, trying to shake off the sleepiness. You were up late last night, looking through the entire apartment <em>just one more time</em> for anything you could have missed.</p><p>It’s something you’ve done half a dozen times since he was admitted. You haven’t found any needles or Dilaudid since the first time, but you keep doing it anyways. For some reason, when you were feeling anxious about... well, everything, it would calm you down.</p><p>You can’t stop yourself from checking once more before you leave to pick him up—though not as thoroughly since you don’t have the time. You just check his hiding places—the desk drawer with the false bottom, the pair of socks he hates that stay in the back of his sock drawer, the gun safe (he’d told you the code years ago just in case and hasn’t changed it since, more worried about you being in danger and needing it than you finding things he doesn’t want you to), and the two hollowed out books at the back of two different bookshelves.</p><p>You want to believe that even if there were anything there, he wouldn’t go looking for it anymore, but you aren’t there yet. He’s been in treatment just shy of six weeks, and it’s been up and down. Two steps forward has always seemed to be accompanied by one step back.</p><p>While he usually thrived on routine, the enforced structure of the treatment facility would remind him of Millburn multiple times a day. It took the better part of two weeks for him to adjust to it. The first time you visited him, he had curled up in your arms and cried about it, saying that he was barely sleeping because he didn’t feel safe and that he just wanted to go home.</p><p>It didn’t help that he didn’t get along with his roommate. Spencer found him to be too loud, complaining to you multiple times that he always wanted to talk during quiet time. Apparently he was also working on his GED, and would constantly ask him for answers to his homework. “I wouldn’t mind helping him, but he just wants me to <em>give </em>him the answers instead,” he’d told you. So Spencer had just tried to ignore him.</p><p>But his patience had finally snapped a few weeks ago when his roommate drank both his own and Spencer’s shampoo in a suicide attempt, because he’d “read somewhere that shampoo was toxic.” Spencer had yelled at him, calling him a “fucking idiot”, among other things (they were promptly separated). His roommate was fine in the end—he just threw up a lot. But he was permanently moved to a different room, to both you and Spencer’s relief.</p><p>Spencer had a meltdown the next night, though, when it was time to shower. He had been given replacement shampoo from the treatment center’s supplies, but he didn’t like the smell and couldn’t stand the texture, so he’d refused to take a shower. That then resulted in him losing points for not following the structure. (Points were given for good behavior and meeting goals, and were mainly how privileges were earned.)</p><p>Naturally, Spencer had protested that this wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t <em>his </em>fault that he didn’t have shampoo that he could use. He’d been told that these were the rules, and he wouldn’t be given an exception. In response, Spencer had thrown the shampoo across the room, thrown himself onto his bed, buried his head under his pillow, and refused to talk to anyone.</p><p>But that night ended up marking a turn for the better in his treatment. He hadn’t responded when shift change happened and one of the night staff, Matt, checked in on him—in fact, he hadn’t moved at all. When he’d said, “tell me if there’s anything I can do to help you feel better”, Spencer had had no intention of taking him up on it.</p><p>A couple of hours later, though, when everything was quiet and he couldn’t sleep because he felt sticky and dirty from not showering, he wandered out into the commons area, holding his favorite blanket from home around himself. When asked what he needed, he’d shrugged, because he didn’t know what he needed, besides his old shampoo, and there wasn’t much to be done about that at midnight.</p><p>“I heard you had a rough time this evening,” Matt had said.</p><p>Spencer nodded absently, looking at everything but the two of them sitting on the couches.</p><p>“Do you want to talk about it?”</p><p>He shook his head.</p><p>“Okay,” Matt had replied. “Well, you can sit out here with us for a little while if you want. How’s ten minutes sound?”</p><p>Spencer had shrugged again, but sat down on the corner of the couch, pulling his legs up against his chest. He pressed his nose into the fabric of the blanket and breathed in deeply. He’d held off on washing it since got here because it smelled like you. It was comforting, and he felt himself relax some. Then, without thinking about it consciously, he opened his mouth... and talked.</p><p>He started with the shampoo incident. His voice had raised an octave and hot tears stung his eyes as he talked about how much he hated the replacement shampoo and how he felt that he was being treated unfairly by people who didn’t understand why it bothered him so much. And then he had just... kept going. He didn’t talk about specifics—he said he was framed and wrongly incarcerated, then went straight to everything that had happened since he got home. He talked about losing his job and his first relapse because of that. He talked about how he couldn’t seem to stop going back. He talked about your ultimatum and his two weeks living out of his car.</p><p>When he finally stopped, he was breathing heavily and exhausted, but he felt... lighter. It was like the dam burst. The next morning, he started talking, <em>really </em>talking, to his therapist. When you came by that evening to bring him new shampoo, he’d told you all about what had happened, sparing no detail. To say it shocked you was an understatement—he hadn’t been so open with you since Mexico.</p><p>The two weeks since had gone well. There were a few bumps, but otherwise he was improving, and he’d been able to earn a day visit for his birthday.</p><p>Spencer looks... <em>good</em> when you see him. He’s fully dressed, wearing the cardigan he knows you like the best, and it no longer looks baggy on him. He’d come back from prison a little underweight, and it had only gotten worse since. But he’s been steadily gaining it back here thanks to sobriety and regular meals. He’s got his satchel across his shoulder but he isn’t clinging to it protectively and the way he rocks up on the balls of his feet appears to be excited rather than nervous. It looks like he may have even run a brush through his hair for once.</p><p>Then he sees you, and the smile that spreads across his face... he looks like <em>himself </em>again. Your smile back is so big that it probably looks goofy, but you don’t care.</p><p>He hugs you as soon as you’re close enough. It’s tight, but he’s not clinging to you like you’ve grown accustomed to over the past six weeks, which you think can only be a good thing—he’s not feeling insecure or unsafe anymore.</p><p>“Happy birthday,” you say. “You look really nice.”</p><p>“Really?” he asks. “Because I got up a little early to get ready, but I didn’t shave since I’d have to check out my razor and that’s a hassle, and if you don’t like it, that’s fine. I’m not really sure myself—”</p><p>“Spencer, I don’t mind the facial hair at all,” you interrupt. “You look great. I mean it.”</p><p>He glances away shyly, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Thanks,” he murmurs.</p><p>You both sign the checkout paperwork and head out. Spencer insists on holding your hand the entire time. When you get to the car and start to let go, he tightens his grip instead and pulls you closer to him. “(Y/N).”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>He hesitates just slightly before placing his other hand on your cheek. “Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.</p><p>You blink, realizing that it’s been a long while since you’ve kissed. And just like that, you’re aching for his lips on yours. “Please do.”</p><p>Spencer lets your hand go then. Cradling your head in both of his hands now, he leans in and kisses you <em>so </em>gently. You soak it in, feeling warm inside as something you didn’t realize you were missing returns to you. When he pulls back, he looks more at peace than you’ve seen him in months.</p><p>You just look at each other for a bit. Eventually, you place a kiss on his cheek and say, “We should go before we get in trouble for loitering.”</p><p>He wants to hold your hand whenever he can on the drive home, and you let him. He tells you how his week has been going—someone in his group therapy is graduating the program in a few days, and they’ve started a new project in art therapy. You knew about the art project already, since he’d spent half of his phone time on Monday telling you how much he didn’t want to make a pottery project because he can’t stand how the clay feels on his hands when it dries. But you’ve always loved to listen to him talk, so you don’t remind him of this.</p><p>As you’re getting off the freeway fifteen minutes later, you tap the back of his hand twice to signal that you have something to say. He pauses in his infodump about the history of pottery so you can speak. “I’ve got a few presents for you at home, but I was thinking we could go to the bookstore and you can pick out some more things?”</p><p>He makes a happy humming noise. “That sounds great! There’s something I want to read up on.”</p><p>He veers off to the nonfiction section when you enter his favorite bookstore; you idly browse your favorite section as you wait. When he returns to your side, he’s holding a stack of five books, all on the same subject.</p><p>“Horses,” you say.</p><p>He nods enthusiastically, his hair bouncing. “I’m starting an equine therapy program next week.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s cool. I hope it goes well.” You don’t know much about horse therapy—seems like that’s going to be what you read about on your phone in bed tonight while you wait for sleep to come.</p><p>Spencer’s quiet on the car ride home, content to flip through his new books. He doesn’t notice when you park the car; you have to touch his arm to get his attention.</p><p>“What?” he asks without taking his eyes off of the full color spread of a mustang in his lap.</p><p>“We’re home,” you point out. With how many times he’s told you he wants to go home in the past weeks, you expect him to be excited, but he’s not. He tenses when he looks up and sees the building in front of you. “What’s wrong, Spencer?”</p><p>“Um...” He fiddles with the book’s dust jacket. “There’s... there’s not a surprise party waiting for me inside, is there?”</p><p>“Oh. No, there’s not. Just a few balloons and little banner. You, uh...” you wince a little as something occurs to you. “You weren’t wanting one, were you?”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” he immediately replies.</p><p>You chuckle a little at his certainty. “Well, good. Because I had a hell of a time convincing Penelope not to throw you a birthday party, and I don’t know if she’d ever forgive me if it turned out I was wrong and you did, in fact, want a party.”</p><p>That gets a small laugh out of him; your heart leaps at the sound. It’s been far too long since you’ve heard that.</p><p>He seems a little apprehensive as you unlock the front door, and when he walks in, he stays standing on the living room rug for a while, his eyes traveling from one side of the room to another, looking over everything. “It looks the same,” he says eventually.</p><p>“Were you expecting it not to be?” you ask.</p><p>“I don’t know,” he answers, running his fingers across one of the seams of his satchel. “It’s not that I thought you would change anything, it’s more like... I feel so much different than I did the last time I was here that it’s kind of strange to see that everything’s just like I remember it.”</p><p>You’re reminded of the last time he was standing still in the living room like this, stick-thin, dirty, and trembling from withdrawals. “Different in a good way, I hope,” you say, nervously fussing with the pile of presents on the coffee table.</p><p>He gives you a small smile. “Yes, in a good way,” he affirms softly. He notices the presents and scrunches his eyebrows. “I thought you said you only had a few presents here.”</p><p>“Most of these are from the team,” you explain. “Emily brought them by last night. They had to fly out this morning, but she wanted you to have them on your birthday.”</p><p>“Oh.” He raises his hand and it looks like he might rub at his eye but he presses his knuckles to his mouth instead. You can’t really tell what’s going on in his mind. You figure his feelings towards his team are complicated. On the one hand, they got him out of the prison, and he’s known some of them for over a decade. On the other, he wasn’t allowed to rejoin the BAU and the whole experience had made him feel humiliated. You think he wants to see them, but he also doesn’t; he’s stuck in the middle and can’t decide.</p><p>Either way, it doesn’t matter today. It’s his birthday and you want him to have a good one, so you redirect his attention. You sit on the couch and pat the spot next to you. “Will you show me your new books?”</p><p>The corners of his mouth turn up and he pads across the floor towards you. “Yeah. So, here’s what I’ve learned so far....”</p><p>The day continues in much the same fashion—quiet and laidback as you simply enjoy each other’s company. Once he shows you all of the books, you move on to the TV, catching up on the episodes of Doctor Who you’ve both missed (you didn’t want to watch it without him). You order his favorite takeout for dinner, after which you bring out his dessert—half a dozen chocolate frosting and sprinkles donuts arranged in a circle around two candles displaying 36.</p><p>“You know, it’s not really sanitary to blow all over food before sharing it,” he says.</p><p>You roll your eyes fondly. “We go over this every year. We kiss; I’m not worried about your mouth germs.”</p><p>“But it’s not just my “mouth germs”,” he corrects, making air quotes with his fingers. “It involves the entire respiratory track, so—”</p><p>“Spencer, as always, it’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you interrupt. You’ve heard this explanation before. “Now make a wish.”</p><p>He takes a moment to ponder it, then blows the candles out. You put the plate down and hand him a napkin. “We’re not going to be able to eat all of these before I have to go back,” he says, but the way he bites eagerly into the first one nearly makes you question that.</p><p>He gets through two; you only eat one, mostly full from dinner. He wants to go lay down on the bed after, “so we have more room to cuddle”. And cuddle he does, pressing as much of his body to yours as he can. One of your hands settles in his hair automatically. “Did you have a good day?” you ask, running your fingers through it.</p><p>“Mm-hmm.”</p><p>“Obviously this situation is not ideal,” you start carefully. “But I’m just so happy that you’re still... well, <em>around </em>for your birthday.”</p><p>Spencer turns his head into the fabric of your shirt and breathes in deeply. “Me, too,” he says quietly on the exhale.</p><p>You lay together in silence for a while, and you savor the feeling of having him in bed next to you again. Sleeping alone wasn’t anything new in your relationship, as his job took him around the country. You’d gotten used to it for the most part, but every night he wasn’t with you because he was in prison was just plain awful. After, you had him back for six weeks, then it became sporadic again as he started using. It’s been so much easier to sleep since he went into treatment, but you still miss sharing the bed with him terribly.</p><p>You look at your phone briefly to check the time. “We’ve got about three hours until we have to start heading back. I’m happy to stay like this, but we still have time to do something else if you want to.”</p><p>All he says verbally is, “okay”, but the way he squirms against you tells you that he does have something on his mind.</p><p>“Just let me know if you do,” you say gently; you don’t want him to feel pressured into speaking. Plus you’re content to lay here playing with his hair and listening to his breathing.</p><p>“Well, there is something,” he admits after a few minutes.</p><p>He doesn’t continue, so you say, “Okay. What is it?”</p><p>He sighs and sits up. “It’s... it’s nothing <em>bad, </em>or—or even that big of a deal, really. At least, it shouldn’t be.”</p><p>You push yourself up into a sitting position next to him. “Well, why don’t you tell me so I can help?” you ask. “I can tell that it’s bothering you.”</p><p>“That’s exactly the point. It <em>shouldn’t </em>be bothering me,” Spencer complains. “Because I really want to do it. It’s just...”</p><p>You put your hand on his back and run it up and down to try and comfort him. You don’t say anything; you just give him time to get the words out.</p><p>He takes a deep breath. “I want to have sex,” he says. “I really do, I’m just... not entirely sure I’m... ready yet.”  </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>It’s not where you expected the conversation to go, because it’s something that hasn’t really been in your life at all since Mexico. He’d... <em>taken care </em>of you a few times during those first six weeks, but hadn’t let you return the favor. Each time he had scurred off to the bathroom and run a cold shower before you could even touch the waistband of his pants. Then on the night he came back to you, you had been helping him undress since his hands were trembling so much. When you unbuttoned his pants, he had breathed in sharply and frantically pushed your hands away.</p><p>Clearly <em>something </em>had happened to him, but he’d never even alluded to anything of the sort. And that was okay—you didn’t need to know. You just wished you knew how to help.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid,” he says, running his hands down his face.</p><p>“Oh, baby, no,” you soothe. “It’s not stupid at all.”</p><p>He just shakes his head. “You deserve more than this.”</p><p>“I don’t know about that. But,” you continue, pushing his hair back so you can see his face better, “I <em>do </em>know what I <em>want</em>, and what I want is you.”</p><p>Spencer chews on his bottom lip, doubt clouding his eyes. “Look at me,” you implore. He meets your gaze hesitantly and you take his face in your hands.</p><p>“I love you, Spencer Reid. And nothing is going to change that.”</p><p>His eyes grow wet. He sniffles once, then lunges forward, capturing your lips with his own. You kiss him back just as passionately, holding onto him as tight as he is to you. It may have been a long time since you kissed at all until this morning, but it’s been even longer since he’s kissed you like <em>this</em>.</p><p>“Love you, too, (Y/N),” he mumbles against your lips when he pulls back to take a breath.</p><p>You press your forehead to his with a happy sigh. But he’s only content to stay like that for a few moments. He bumps your nose with his and tugs slightly on your shirt, requesting permission to kiss you again. You’d love to do that, and you’d love to do more than that, too, but you don’t want him to rush into something he’s not truly ready for.</p><p>“You know what we could do?” you ask, running your hand through the curls on the back of his neck.</p><p>Spencer’s eyes keep flicking between yours and your lips. “What?”</p><p>“A good old-fashioned high school make out,” you say, smiling at him softly. “And I’ll keep my hands above your waist.”</p><p>When he visibly relaxes, you know it’s the right decision. “I’d like that,” he says quietly. “I mean, I never kissed anyone when I was in high school, but I get the idea.”</p><p>The shy look he gives you before climbing onto your lap reminds you so much of how he was when you first started dating. He’s still there, your Spencer, the Spencer you fell in love with. You never <em>truly </em>thought he was gone, but there were plenty of moments of doubt, moments when you wondered if he’d ever be able to pull himself out of the wreckage, out of the grip of trauma. As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t do it for him.</p><p>As it turns out, he could. He can.</p><p>It’s far from over. He still has a long way to go. You both do. But for the first time since the day he came home from prison, a return to normal seems possible.</p><p>It won’t be the same as it was before. He’s always going to be a little different. But... that doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing.</p><p>He kisses you, and it feels like it used to, full of respect, adoration, trust, and love. It feels like <em>Spencer</em>.</p><p>Despite everything, it’s still him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. you will be found</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Spencer’s doing better, but recovery isn’t linear, and some scars run deeper than either of you knew.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s been looking forward to the start of equine therapy since he got a spot in the program. But instead of being excited the morning of, Spencer ends up crying for an hour straight.</p><p>The day started off fine. It wasn’t hard to get up with the horses to look forward to, and he was able to get an extra plate at breakfast, so he could keep the pancake syrup from touching the eggs and sausage. Art therapy was a few hours later. He’d started to actually enjoy the pottery project—the recreational therapist had brought him a box of disposable gloves to use so the feeling of drying clay on his hands was no longer a problem.</p><p>Everyone’s projects were coming out of the kiln today and the next step was painting them. He’d been planning out the design and colors he wanted to use since the project started and was excited to finally start applying it.</p><p>Then he dropped his item, it broke into pieces, and he burst into tears.</p><p>He’d fled the room on instinct alone and curled up in a corner of the hallway, pressing his knees to his forehead. He was upset about the pottery, and upset that he was so affected by it breaking. He felt stupid and silly for crying over it, which only made him cry harder.</p><p>He heard distant laughter and he clapped his hands over his ears. He was being laughed at <em>again </em><span>for being a crybaby. He didn’t want to be a crybaby. </span><span>H</span><span>e wanted to stop crying, he </span><span>just</span><span> couldn’t. The goalpost was cold against the bare skin of his back, and his wrists were starting to burn from the ties. </span></p><p>
  <em>I want to go home. Just let me go home, please, I’ll do anything. Let me go, let me go--</em>
</p><p>“<span>Spencer, it’s okay. You’re safe here. Can you repeat after me? </span><em>I’m safe here.</em><span>” </span></p><p>
  <em>Safe here. Safe here. </em>
</p><p>Art therapy was over by the time he came out of it.</p><p>He has lunch at his therapist’s office instead of with the group. Lara asks what his flashback had been to.</p><p>He picks at his food. “It happened a long time ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”</p><p>“Alright. Can you tell me how it felt instead?”</p><p>Spencer isn’t really hungry, but bites into his sandwich to stall for time. She doesn’t rush him. Eventually, he asks, “Do you know what alexithymia means?”</p><p>“No words for feelings,” she replies.</p><p>He nods. “That’s all.”</p><p>Lara opens one of her desk drawers and pulls out a composition notebook, which she then hands to him.</p><p>“What’s this for?”</p><p>“I want you to start trying to notice your feelings and sensations throughout the day. Make some kind of note, even if you don’t exactly have the words to describe it.”</p><p>He sighs. “Why?”</p><p>“Just noticing what you feel can help you develop emotional regulation,” she explains. She’s always been honest with him about the<em> why</em> ofwhat she wants him to try and do. “It’s going to help you stop ignoring what’s going on inside you.”</p><p>
  <em>I don’t want to do that. </em>
</p><p>“I know you don’t.”</p><p>“<span>I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he blurts. “That either. I—god.” He quickly takes another bite </span><span>of food </span><span>before he can say more. </span></p><p>“It’s fine. I didn’t expect you to like it,” Lara says with a small smile. “I’m sure the thought of confronting what you’ve been suppressing and avoiding is scary. But getting better requires you to do a lot of scary things.”</p><p>
  <span>Spencer wants to protest. Being strapped to a chair in a shed and dosed against your will is scary. Your mother being diagnosed with Alzheimer's is scary. </span>
  <span>Being sent to prison for a crime you didn’t commit is scary.</span>
  <span> Feeling things? That’s not scary. </span>
</p><p>Isn’t it?</p><p>
  <span>H</span>
  <span>e tries not to think on it too much. </span>
</p><p>Despite the unpleasant thoughts running through his mind, Spencer finds himself nodding off on the van ride to the horse ranch. His eyes unfocus, his blink rate slows… and then he jerks back awake at the sensation of his head falling forward.</p><p>A frustrated noise escapes the back of his throat. He’s sick of feeling tired all the time. He’s getting enough sleep in theory, but still finds himself drowsy at <em>least </em>once a day. It’s to the point that he’s regularly wearing his glasses instead of his contacts to keep his eyes from feeling quite so dry. He pushes them back up now as he tries to tune back in to his surroundings.</p><p>“… don’t get how seeing some horse is supposed to make me feel better.” That’s Aiden’s voice. He’s Spencer’s new roommate. He wasn’t happy when he found out he was getting a new one, having much preferred having the room to himself, but it’s been okay so far, mostly because they keep out of each other’s way. Aiden seems uninterested in making friends, and that suits Spencer just fine. Lara’s been encouraging him to talk to fellow patients instead of just the direct care staff, but he’s resisted it. The last time he befriended someone, they ended up--</p><p>Spencer’s fine with the two of them keeping to themselves.</p><p>Melanie, one of the staff accompanying them, is leaned over the back of the middle seat as she talks to Aiden. “Well, I couldn’t tell you why exactly, but I’ve seen this program help a lot of people in my time here,” she says. “Spencer?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You’ve been reading a lot about horses, right?” At his nod, she continues, “What have you found out?”</p><p>“Equine-assisted psychotherapy lacks the rigorous scientific evidence to demonstrate if it provides benefits in mental health treatment. Horses have been used to aid in psychiatric treatment since the 1990’s, though,” he says. He intends to stop there, but can’t stop himself from continuing. “It doesn’t necessarily involve riding, but may include grooming, feeding, and ground exercises. The goal is to help the client in social, emotional, cognitive, and or behavioral ways.”</p><p>He can feel Aiden’s eyes on him and takes a breath before meeting them. He knows all too well that his infodumps aren’t always well received. He doesn’t want to be friends, but would prefer for his roommate to not view him with disdain or annoyance. But Aiden looks interested, and says as much--”that’s interesting.” He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t, and there’s silence between them for the remainder of the drive. It’s not uncomfortable, though.</p><p>When the van pulls into a parking spot and everyone starts to get out, Spencer begins to feel nervous. He’s read everything he could get his hands on, but as a relatively new therapy, there’s no standard program; it varies by facility, so he doesn’t know exactly what to expect. He’s been looking forward to this, but what if it turns out to be a bad fit for him? What if the people here don’t like him? What if the <em>horses </em>don’t like him?</p><p>He hangs at the back of their group of ten—six patients and two staff—as they’re led to a shaded area. They’re introduced to the program director and assistants, and are given an overview of what they’ll be doing over the next six weeks. They won’t be riding the horses, just doing groundwork (he’s not sure if he feels relieved or disappointed). Then he learns that intention of this specific program isn’t just for the horses to help the clients—the clients are to help the horses as well. The animals all have the gentle temperaments suited for therapy, but also have their own struggles. A lot of them were adopted out of poor situations.</p><p>They’re led to a circular corral next and spaced equidistantly around the edge. Spencer’s heart rate picks up as the horses are brought in—the animals will be picking their therapy partner, the director says. As they’re let off their leads a jolt of anxiety runs through his body, making him twitch slightly. This feels uncomfortably familiar to school P.E. when teams were picked. No one wanted him then. What’s gong to happen if none of the horses want him, either? He looks down at his shoes.</p><p>But just a few moments later, he hears his name, and looks up to see one of the horses approaching him. “Looks like you and Chance are our first pair,” the director is saying.</p><p>
  <em>First? </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Chance is almost entirely black, save for a spot of white between his eyes and above his nose. </span>
  <span>His size is a little intimidating, but his demeanor is gentle. One of the assistants comes up to Spencer and instructs him to hold out his hand so the horse can sniff it. </span>
</p><p>His hand trembles slightly as he lifts it. Warm breath hits his fingers as Chance sniffs at it. Then the horse presses his nose completely against his hand. The moistness would usually bother Spencer, but for some reason it doesn’t. Instead, a smile slowly spreads across his face. The assistant tells him he can pet Chance now. He runs his hand up and down the horse’s snout, and despite the slight coarseness of the hair, finds it soothing.</p><p>The horse shuffles closer when Spencer is given his lead to hold. A startled laugh escapes him when Chance presses his nose into his neck. He pats his head a few times, then takes a tiny step back. He’s thrilled that at least one of the horses likes him, but feels a little crowded by the large animal. To his surprise, Chance seems to understand, and takes a step back of his own.</p><p>He absently pats his horse as he watches the rest of the group pair up. He still can’t believe he was picked first.</p><p>The rest of their time with the horses is very simple. They’re taught how to lead them, and after practicing in the corral, they take the horses back to their paddocks. Spencer’s disappointed to say goodbye already, but understands the need to not overwhelm the horses or even themselves. “I’ll see you next week,” he finds himself whispering to Chance.</p><p>There’s ten minutes left in the session, and it’s spent with the director telling them more about each horses’ specific background. Chance was poorly treated by his previous owner, mostly kept locked up in a small barn and not properly cared for. He has many talents and abilities, the director says. He needs to learn that he didn’t deserve to be treated the way he was, and be told that he is brave.</p><p>
  <span>Spencer rests his chin in his hand and stares out the window on the drive back to the treatment center. He knows from his reading that horses are emotionally intelligent creatures, but </span>
  <span>he’s</span>
  <span> still… well,</span>
  <em> amazed </em>
  <span>by</span>
  <span> how the horses all picked who was most similar to them out of the group </span>
  <span>instinctively. </span>
</p><p>He feels more understood by an animal he’s interacted with for twenty minutes than he has by a person for months.</p><p>Before bed that night, he chews on the stem of his pen cap, thinking over the events of his day. Slowly, in a manner that could almost be described as cautious, he picks up the empty composition book Lara gave him and opens it. His hand hovers over the blank page for a few moments, then he puts pen on paper and begins to write.</p>
<hr/><p>You made dinner reservations for his visit this Saturday. You’re getting ready for it when there’s a knock on the front door.</p><p>“I’ll get it,” Spencer calls from the living room.</p><p>You return to fixing your hair up. You’re not expecting anyone, so it’s probably just a package or a neighbor. But just a few moments later, you hear Spencer raise his voice.</p><p>“No! No, I don’t—don’t touch me, please.”</p><p>You’re only half dressed, but hurry out to the living room anyways. When you round the corner, you immediately see what the problem is: JJ has dropped by unexpectedly.</p><p>It’s not that Spencer doesn’t want to see his team. They just bring memories with them, and he had decided shortly after his birthday that he wasn’t ready to confront that yet.</p><p>He’s standing a little ways back from the door, staring at JJ while she looks back with hurt on her face. “Spence--” she starts before she sees you.</p><p>At Spencer’s side, you place a hand on his arm and he takes a step behind you. “JJ, what are you doing here?”</p><p>She struggles to keep her eyes off of him as she answers. “(Y/N), I’m sorry, I just—Will and I made cookies with the boys today and we had a lot of extra, so I just wanted to drop some off for you. I—I didn’t know Spence was here. I didn’t mean to--”</p><p>You hold up a hand to stop her. “It’s okay, JJ. You couldn’t have known. You were just trying to do something nice.”</p><p>She nods, relieved at your understanding. “Yeah. Yeah, I….” She blows out a breath, then holds out a plastic wrapped plate of cookies to you. You take it from her with a quiet thank you. Then she looks back to the man that’s essentially hiding behind you as best as he can, despite how tall he is. “Spence, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you wouldn’t want me to touch you.”</p><p>There’s a tug on your clothing as he curls his fingers into the fabric on the small of your back. You tilt your head to look at him, but his gaze is on the floor. “You…” he glances up once, then looks back down. “You should ask next time,” he says quietly.</p><p>“Okay,” she replies, just as softly. “I will.”</p><p>You bite down on the inside of your cheeks to hold back a smile. Spencer often struggles to advocate for his needs, especially with his friends and colleagues, in fear of being a burden or more of a nuisance than he thinks others already perceive him as. He did it a lot with you when you first started dating. It took a lot of time and reassurance that yes, you really <em>did </em><span>want to know his wants and needs, for him to open up. Telling JJ to ask before touching him may seem small from the outside, but it’s a big deal for him. </span></p><p>After a rather awkward silence, JJ speaks again. “Well, um, I should get going. Just… let us know if you need anything, okay, Spence? We—the team, we’re all here for you.”</p><p>“That’s rich,” Spencer mutters behind you and you freeze. You recognize that edge to his voice. It’s usually accompanied by sharp words and remarks that he’ll regret later.</p><p>
  <em>Please please please tell me JJ didn’t hear that. </em>
</p><p>“I’m sorry?”</p><p>
  <em>Fuck. </em>
</p><p>“I hate to rush you out, JJ, but we have dinner reservations, so--” you try to interject but Spencer speaks over you.</p><p>“I’m just saying, why should I believe you’re <em>here for me</em> when you weren’t last time?”</p><p>JJ’s eyebrows come together. “I… don’t understand, I’ve always--”</p><p>“No, you haven’t!” It’s like Spencer can’t get the words out fast enough, the way he keeps interrupting before either of you can finish a sentence. This is clearly something that’s been weighing on him. You just wish he was unloading it onto his therapist rather than poor JJ, his best friend outside of you, who’s just trying to be nice. “Ten years ago I was shooting up in police station bathrooms and Emily is the only one who said a damn thing.”</p><p>His grip on your clothes tightens, forcing you to take a step back. You move the plate of cookies to one hand and reach back with the other, circling it around his wrist. “Spencer.”</p><p>Realization dawns on JJ’s face and she crosses her arms. “Spence, I couldn’t--”</p><p>“You <em>couldn’t.</em>” The little laugh he lets out derisive. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”</p><p>You don’t know where all this is coming from or what he’s referring to, but JJ does, her expression hardening.</p><p>“You know what would have happened if the higher ups found out,” she says. “I was protecting your job. We all were.”</p><p>“You shouldn’t have!” he cries, emotions other than anger seeping into the words. “This damn job is one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me! I got anthrax poisoning, I <em>still </em>have issues with my knee from being shot. I nearly died from a shot in the <em>neck</em>, and let’s not forget, I was framed for murder by a psychopath I arrested, who then kidnapped my mother while I was in <em>prison</em><em>!</em> Oh, and what else? Oh right, this job is the reason I’m a <em>fucking addict</em> in the first place!”</p><p>JJ’s clearly trying to hold back tears now, but one slips out and your heart aches for her. You close your eyes briefly and take a deep breath, then speak quietly but firmly. “Spencer, you need to leave the room.”</p><p>You can hear him breathing shakily behind you. “(Y/N)--”</p><p>“<em>Now</em>.” You squeeze his wrist and he finally lets go of your clothing. He takes a few steps away, stops, turns back and opens his mouth to say something, but at the look you give him, shuts it and continues on his way out.</p><p>A sniffle draws your attention back to JJ, who’s looking up at the ceiling and swiping at the tears sliding down. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I shouldn’t have come by without giving you a heads-up. I’ve just made things worse.”</p><p>“No, JJ, don’t be sorry. It--” There’s thumping noises from further back in the apartment so you step forward and shut the front door behind you. She has her arms wrapped around herself when you turn back.</p><p>“It’s not your fault,” you continue. “You were just trying to be nice. You’re a good friend to him. He’s just… everything is really <em>raw </em>for him right now, if that makes sense?”</p><p>She nods, wiping at her eyes again.</p><p>“It’s, uh, not an excuse, though,” you clarify. “That’s not what I’m trying to say. You didn’t do anything wrong. That was all him, so please don’t blame yourself.”</p><p>JJ is quiet for a bit, staring at the floor. Then she says, “I should get going.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” you agree quietly. Realizing you’re still holding the plate of cookies in one hand, you lift it slightly and add, “Thanks for these. And, um… I’m <em>so </em>sorry about that.”</p><p>She shakes her head and glances at the door. “Don’t be. Like you said, it was all him,” she murmurs.</p><p>You know she’s right, but you’re still barely able to stop yourself from apologizing again as she descends the stairs. You can’t help but feel like you should have done more, stopped him somehow, even though you don’t know how you could have. The way his behavior changed… it was like he <em>wanted </em>to get it all out, and when Spencer Reid wants to say something, it’s nearly impossible to get him to stop.</p><p>The apartment isn’t quiet when you walk back in. There’s the scraping and clatter of a desk drawer, followed by frantic footsteps and the thud of books falling off the shelves. You know what he’s doing, and you know he won’t find anything, so you just lock the front door and continue on to the kitchen to put the cookies away.</p><p>You lean on the counter and cover your face with your hands. It doesn’t matter if you mess up your hair or face, or anything, really, because you’re not making it to dinner anymore.</p><p>You stay like that for a while, eyes closed, trying to think of a place to even start with Spencer after all of that. When the sounds of him tearing through the apartment stop, you lift you head back up and promptly jump—he’s staring at you from the nearest doorway.</p><p>“Jesus, Spencer--”</p><p>“Where’s my stuff?” he asks, and the seriousness in his tone of voice makes your anxiety spike. You know exactly what he means by <em>stuff</em>.</p><p>“It’s gone. What did you think was gonna happen?”</p><p>“Yeah, but it’s…” he trails off and his expression puzzles you. It almost looks like he’s confused. “It’s <em>all </em>gone.”</p><p>
  <em>Ah. </em>
  <span>“Yeah, well, I know you think you’re sneaky, but you’re very much the opposite when you’re not sober,” you reply. “Finding your hiding spots wasn’t hard.” </span>
</p><p>He drops his gaze to the floor, frowning. “I don’t like it when you move my things,” he says quietly.</p><p>“I don’t like it when you use,” you counter.</p><p>He visibly flinches, then his hand tightens on the door frame. “I’m not going to—to take it, I just want to hold it. Where’s my stuff?” he repeats.</p><p>“<em>Holding it</em><span>, right,” you sigh. </span></p><p>“<span>It’s comforting,” he argues. </span></p><p>“<span>Even if I believed that, it wouldn’t matter, Spencer. </span><span>I threw it all out. There’s none here.” </span></p><p>The humming noise he makes is angry, and he rocks back and forth on his feet in an agitated manner. “You shouldn’t… I don’t….”</p><p>
  <em>I don’t have the energy for this. </em>
  <span>It’s a thought you feel terrible about as soon as you have it, but it’s the truth. </span>
  <span>Lara had cautioned you before his first visit that he was going to be hypersensitive to disappointment and frustration until he learned how to cope with the feelings he’d been using the Dilaudid to block out. </span>
  <span>Unfortunately, the information, while useful, didn’t always make </span>
  <span>his emotional extremes easier</span>
  <span> to deal with. </span>
</p><p>You run a hand down your face. “Spencer…” you start. You’re not sure what to continue with, but you don’t have to—for whatever reason, that sets him off.</p><p>He tears his eyes away from the floor to glare at you. “Don’t—don’t touch my things ever again!” Then he turns and all but runs to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.</p><p>You suck in a breath and drop your head to the counter. The marble is cool and you thump your forehead against it gently a few times, focusing on breathing in and out slowly to calm down. When you’re ready, you walk as quietly as you can to the bedroom door and press your ear against it to hear the unmistakable sound of Spencer sobbing into his pillow.</p><p>Part of you wants to go in and comfort him, but you suspect that you’d just make it worse right now since some of his frustration is directed at you. And truth be told, you’re frustrated with him, too. So you retreat to the living room, flopping down on the couch and pulling out your phone to call the restaurant to cancel your reservations. Doing so is more upsetting than you expected; a few tears of your own slide down your face after you hang up. Before you know it, you’re calling Tara.</p><p>“Hey, what’s up?” she asks you.</p><p>“<span>I…” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “Spencer’s… </span><em>we’re </em><span>having a bad day. </span><span>If you’re not busy, c</span><span>an I talk to you about it?” </span></p><p>“Of course,” is her gentle reply, and you pull yourself to your feet, moving to the farthest point away from the bedroom in the apartment so Spencer won’t overhear.</p><p>“He got angry when you told him you got rid of everything?” she guesses when you reach that part.</p><p>“Yeah. He told me that he doesn’t like it when I move his things. I already knew that; that’s why everything else is where he left it. I think he was mostly just caught off guard that I knew all his hiding places.”</p><p>“If he’s having a trauma response to seeing JJ, he’s not going to be thinking clearly, either,” Tara points out. “I wasn’t there, so I could be wrong, but from what you’ve said, it sounds like she was some sort of trigger for him.”</p><p>“That’s more than a fair assessment. It’s just… confusing,” you say. “He wasn’t like this with her when he first got home from prison. He actually spent a lot of time at JJ’s house before his relapse. He’d go over and hold Michael when he couldn’t sleep. Why is seeing his best friend suddenly such a bad thing?”</p><p>“I don’t know, but it doesn’t have to make sense to us. It only has to make sense to the traumatized part of the brain,” she explains. “He may not even know why himself.”</p><p>“Hmm.” You ponder it for a moment. “I think I’d find that interesting if I wasn’t living it.”</p><p>Tara laughs out loud at that. “Yeah, I’ve found that to be rather commonplace sentiment in the field of psychology.”</p><p>You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling calmer. “Thanks for listening,” you say. “I feel better now.”</p><p>“Anytime, (Y/N).”</p><p>You exchange goodbyes, making plans to catch up properly over lunch next week. You hang up, then tiptoe back to the bedroom door. It’s quiet now; Spencer seems to have stopped crying. You knock softly. “Honey? Can I come in?”</p><p>When he doesn’t respond, you try the door handle. It’s unlocked, which is a good sign—he’s upset, but not upset enough to completely shut you out. You open the door just enough to look in.</p><p>Spencer’s on the bed as expected, huddled under his weighted blanket. His back is to the door and you see his shoulders shuddering in the little breaths that follow him crying. In your experience, he usually seeks out comfort before this stage, often having the breakdown itself in your arms or stumbling into them halfway through. This is a bit of uncharted territory. You know that after outbursts of negative emotions, he tends to need reassurance and touch from someone to help him decompress and feel better. You just don’t know if that’s going to hold true for this kind of reaction. A trauma response, Tara called it. You hope it will, because you don’t know what else to do.</p><p>“I’m going to come in now,” you tell him before taking a step inside. You leave the door open behind you so he won’t feel trapped, then slowly approach him, looking out for signs that he doesn’t want you near—tensing muscles, slight rocking, shaking his head—but he stays still.</p><p>Once you sit down on the edge of the bed you can see his face. His eyes are puffy and his cheeks are red and raw from wiping away tears. A few are still slipping out, sliding sideways down his face and dropping onto the wet patch on his pillowcase as he stares blankly at the wall across the room.</p><p>Hesitantly, you reach out and touch his arm as lightly as you can. He takes in a deep breath, but does nothing to suggest that he wants you to remove it. After a few moments to ensure that he’s okay with touch, you start running your hand up and down his back. He whimpers a little in response, closing his eyes and titling back into your touch.</p><p>“Are you okay?” you ask softly.</p><p>You don’t get a straightforward answer. He chews on his bottom lip for a bit before speaking in a scratchy voice. “Can you…?” he mumbles, lifting his head up slightly from the pillow, then dropping it back down. You don’t know what he’s asking for until you see some of his fingers poking out from under the blanket and the stroking motion they’re making.</p><p>You maneuver across the mattress to sit against the headboard, jostling him as little as you can, and he shifts to place his head in your lap. When you start carding your fingers through his hair, his eyes flutter closed and he lets out a little sigh.</p><p>“What’s going on?” you ask once the tension has faded and his body has settled fully into the mattress. He just shrugs and you press your lips together to hold back a sigh. You’re familiar with him going nonverbal and you know that he can’t help it, but it’s discouraging. One of the main things he’s been working on is being more open about his emotions. It’s been a welcome change to not have to pry things out of him. But he seems to have gone right back to old habits tonight and it’s… well, it’s disappointing.</p><p>The silence carries on for a long time as you continue to run your hands through his hair. He’s so still and relaxed that you think he may have fallen asleep until he takes in a deep, shuddering breath and clears his throat. “I… I want to go back,” he whispers.</p><p>“Back whe--” you start, then your heart drops as you realize what he means. “Oh.”</p><p>Your hands fall to your lap as he sits up and clambers out of bed, muttering, “gonna get changed.” He shuts the bathroom door behind him—for whatever reason, he’s not always comfortable with you seeing him changing or in the shower anymore—and you sit still for a few moments, processing what he just said. After over a month of listening to him express his desire to come home—begging you, even, in the beginning—you were unprepared to hear the opposite.</p><p>You shake your head slightly to try and clear it, then follow his lead, leaving the bed and changing out of your fancy clothes, trying not to think about how much you had been looking forward to wearing them to the restaurant.</p><p>Spencer remains quiet for the drive back to his treatment center, staring out the passenger side window, legs pulled into his chest. He mumbles a quick “bye” to you when you check him back in—no hug or kiss on the cheek like you’ve grown accustomed to. Instead he turns right back to the nurse and staff member running the process and asks, “Is Matt working tonight? I need to talk to him.”</p><p>
  <em>At least he wants to talk to </em>
  <span>someone, you tell yourself as you leave, trying to soothe the sting caused by the fact that the </span>
  <em>someone </em>
  <span>isn’t you. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>The next time you see him is six days later, on Friday evening. You’ve only talked once since Saturday, over the phone on Wednesday night, and it wasn’t a long call. He was upset about the horse therapy appointment being canceled that afternoon because of the weather—it had rained hard all day—and didn’t say much else. He ended the call before the ten minute mark, saying that he was tired and wanted to go lie down.</p><p>He also didn’t request a visit for the weekend—he either didn’t think his treatment team would approve it or he just didn’t want one. So you’re visiting him at the center today. You’ve brought dinner with you—you cooked one of his favorites yourself—but before you eat, you’re having an appointment with him and his therapist.</p><p>Spencer glances up only briefly when you enter the office, quickly looking back down. One of his knees is bouncing.</p><p>You sit down on the other side of the couch, looking between him and Lara in the chair across from you. “So, um, what’s going on?” you ask.</p><p>Spencer looks to Lara and she gives him an encouraging nod. He takes in a deep breath before speaking. “I… I wanted to talk to you about what ha—happened last week,” he says quietly, keeping his gaze on his lap.</p><p>You don’t know why exactly he wants to do it here, with his therapist, but wanting to talk about it at all is a good sign.. “Okay. I’m listening.”</p><p>“Right, um. Seeing… seeing JJ, it--” he stops abruptly, and his hands tremble slightly as he runs them down his thighs. “Sorry, doing… doing this is making me really anxious.”</p><p>“Take your time,” Lara says and you nod in agreement.</p><p>“Okay.” He runs his hands through his hair a few times before continuing. “Se—seeing her brought up emotions and, and memories I wasn’t ready to, um, confront. It… it really tri—triggered me.”</p><p>“Yeah, I could tell,” you say quietly.</p><p>Spencer grimaces at the words. He lifts his hand, puts it back down, then lifts it again and rubs at one of his eyes. “I…” he starts, then fixes his gaze on the floor and goes silent.</p><p>“(Y/N).” You tear your eyes from him and look at Lara. “Is there anything you’d like to say to Spencer about Saturday? Maybe what it was like for you?”</p><p>“Oh. Um.” You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. You’ve worried about how what you say could effect him since his relapse—one of your biggest fears is saying something that would drive him to use. But it’s stressful to keep up with, and with his therapist is probably the best place to start ridding yourself of your new habit of… well, of walking on eggshells around him.</p><p>“I think it would be good for him to know,” Lara says.</p><p>“Alright.” You lace your fingers together in your lap. “I guess it was just… startling to me. JJ’s your best friend and you’ve never acted that way to her. Or anyone, really, other than your father.”</p><p>Spencer stays silent, but flinches at the mention of his dad.</p><p>“Do you have anything to say to that?” Lara prompts. He shakes his head, so she looks back to you. “How did seeing Spencer like that make you feel?”</p><p>You take in a deep breath and let it out slowly; you’re a little scared to say, not wanting to make him feel worse. “It was… distressing. Especially when he got mad at me for getting rid of his Dilaudid. I know he doesn’t like having his things touched without permission but I don’t think it was reasonable to expect that I wouldn’t have done that.”</p><p>Lara nods. “That makes sense. But our feelings aren’t always logical.”</p><p>“Yeah, I understand. I guess I just wish he would have told me what was wrong instead of being silent--”</p><p>Spencer finally speaks up then, in protest. “I couldn’t help it!”</p><p>“I—I <em>know </em>that,” you argue back. “I just—I’m just telling you how I <em>felt</em>.”</p><p>He looks away, folding his arms and sinking further into the couch.</p><p>“Spencer,” Lara says gently. “You wanted to know how (Y/N) felt, remember? And we talked about how you were probably going to hear things you wouldn’t like.”</p><p>You blink, taken aback that this was his idea. And with that comes the realization of just how long it’s been since he’s asked how <em>you’re </em>feeling. Thinking back, you realize that the last time you had a conversation that wasn’t only focused on his feelings and well-being was the day you found him asleep and tied to his mother. This… it’s Spencer before prison.</p><p>You’re drawn out of your thoughts by him sighing and muttering, “Yeah, I remember.”</p><p>“Alright. Anything else?” Lara asks you.</p><p>There’s a <em>lot </em>else, you’re discovering, but you’re not sure you can unpack it all right now. “Maybe…” you say. “Maybe he could just tell me what I can do to help when he’s… triggered?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” he says dully, and when he catches the small frown on your face, insists, “I don’t.”</p><p>“Yet,” Lara adds.</p><p>He sighs again. “Yet,” he repeats.</p><p>“I know it’s frustrating,” she says. “Your solution to these kinds of feelings before was denial or using. A <em>solution, </em>not just a problem,” she emphasizes. “I want you both to try and think of it like that, and get comfortable with the fact that it’s going to take awhile to overcome those habits.”</p><p>
  <em>A solution, not a problem. </em>
  <span>It’s… weird to think of his addiction that way, but you can try, so you give her a nod. </span>
</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Spencer mumbles. But behind the defensive body language, he just seems tired.</p><p>He seems to relax a little when the meeting wraps up and it’s only the two of you in one of the rooms used for visits. He remains quiet, but when you place the plate of food you dish him across the table from yours, he slides it back and sits in the chair beside you. “Sorry,” he whispers as soon as you take a bite of food.</p><p>“For what?” you ask once you’ve swallowed.</p><p>“For yelling at you on Saturday,” he says quietly. “I was upset but I shouldn’t have yelled.”</p><p>His leg is bouncing under the table; you put your hand on his knee to still it. “Apology accepted,” you say softly.</p><p>He shakes his head slightly. “You don’t have to. I was awful to you on Saturday.”</p><p>
  <span>You frown at his skewed interpretation of events. “Spencer, you really weren’t. You yelled at me, yes, but other than that, you were fine.” </span>
  <em>And you’ve said much worse when you’ve been high. </em>
</p><p>“<span>I ruined dinner. And don’t say it’s not a big deal,” he adds before you can speak. “You mentioned it every time we spoke in the </span><span>week</span><span> leading up to it. You were really excited about it, and I ruined it.” </span></p><p>Spencer’s read you like a book—that was exactly what you were going to say. “Yeah, I <em>was </em>really looking forward to it,” you admit. “And it sucked to have to cancel the reservations. But there will be other dinners, and it’s not like you did it on purpose.”</p><p>“But what if I did?” His voice is so quiet that you wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t right next to you.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I just mean…” he rocks slightly in his seat, which you immediately recognize as one of his self-soothing behaviors. You move your hand from his knee to his hair, lightly running your fingers through the curls covering the nape of his neck to try and help. His head tilts forward a little at your touch and after a brief silence, he continues. “I just mean that self-sabotage wouldn’t exactly be something new for me.”</p><p>“Oh.” You take your time considering it; he won’t believe you if you give in to your knee-jerk reaction to protest the negative feelings he harbors towards himself. But he grows agitated at your silence, rocking a bit harder and rubbing at his eye. You tug his hair lightly without really thinking about it in response.</p><p>“I’m just thinking,” you assure. “You deserve an honest, thought-out answer.”</p><p>After taking a deep breath, he nods. “Okay. I understand. Maybe you could just, uh… to help c--comfort…” He swallows and his voice drops back to a whisper. “Could you do that again?”</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“Um, pull… pull my hair. You did that a few moments ago. Please?”</p><p>You almost want to tease him—a year ago, you would have. But he’s been so timid and unsure when asking for any intimate touch other than cuddling since he got back from prison. You don’t want to discourage him from asking any more than he seems to be discouraging himself.</p><p>“Of course, baby,” you answer softly, and do just that. He closes his eyes and drops his head onto your shoulder. “As far as the self-sabotaging goes, you’re… not good at lying to me,” you muse. “And after six years with you, I feel like I’m pretty familiar with all the ways Spencer Reid self-sabotages. This never even crossed my mind until you brought it up, so I don’t see that as being what happened.”</p><p>You can’t tell if he believes you. A neutral “okay” is all you get from him, but at least he’s not outright disagreeing.</p><p>You gently pull his hair a few more times. “You should eat before it gets cold and we have to heat it up again.”</p><p>He takes the suggestion, picking his fork up, but you’ve never seen him less enthused about eating one of his favorite foods. He’s only cleared half of his plate when you’re done with all of yours.</p><p>“What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>You can’t help but sigh at the habitual response, and consider your next words carefully. “Spencer, I don’t mean to be pushy, but you told me you were working on not dismissing people’s concern for you when they express it.”</p><p>“I am,” he mutters, but doesn’t say anything else, just continues to push his food around his plate aimlessly.</p><p>“Well, is something wrong with the food?” you ask. “Did I get the texture wrong, or--”</p><p>“No, no,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “It’s not the food. The food’s great. It’s… it’s me that’s the problem.”</p><p>Your eyebrows come together. “I don’t understand.”</p><p>“I…” He starts to blush. “I’m not eating it all because I think I need to lose some weight.”</p><p>“Don’t you dare,” he say immediately without thinking. He makes a startled noise at the same time you clap your hand over your mouth. You definitely don’t want him to lose weight, you just hadn’t meant for it to come out like that.</p><p>On the day he came home and agreed to treatment, you’d seen just how underweight he’d become as you helped him unbutton his shirt. The stark outline of his ribs against his skin had been scary, and you had no desire to see that again. It was a relief when he started to gain back what he’d lost in prison and afterwards. And you were happy to see him continue to put on even more than that.</p><p>You clear your throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that. You were just<em> so </em>skinny when you got here. You look good like this.”</p><p>“I’ve never weighed this much before,” he says, and the distress in his tone makes you think that this is a fact that has been bothering him for a while. “Some of my clothes are getting too tight.”</p><p>“We can buy you new clothes.”</p><p>“But we don’t know how much longer the insurance will cover my stay here. Residential treatment is expensive. We don’t need to be spending extra money on clothes when I could just lose the weight instead and not need them.”</p><p>“Hey.” You put your hand on his cheek. “I don’t want you to worry about money. The insurance <em>is </em>covering it for now. If they stop, that’s a problem to deal with when we get there. Just focus on getting better.”</p><p>He looks away from you, down to his lap. “I should still lose some weight,” he says eventually.</p><p>“Have you medical staff told you that?” you inquire, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>“No,” he admits with a sigh.</p><p>“Then you’re not allowed to worry about it,” you say firmly. “Finish your dinner.”</p><p>Spencer hesitates, but picks his fork back up. The corners of his mouth turn up just slightly when he starts eating again, telling you that despite his fretting, he’s happy not to stop himself from eating as much as he wants.</p><p>He seems to be in a much better mood at the end of the evening than he was when you arrived, though a bit more subdued and quieter than normal. He also appears to be very tired. It’s only 7:30 but he keeps yawning. He denies dozing off with his head on your shoulder while you were talking after dinner, but you’re sure he did.</p><p>During your parting hug, he nestles his face into your neck just like he always does when you’re sleeping in bed together. “Try and get some good sleep tonight,” you encourage, smoothing your hands down his back. “And Spencer?”</p><p>He pulls back to look at you and you settle your hands lightly on his waist. “I meant it, you know.” You squeeze slightly. “When I said you look good like this.”</p><p>It takes him a few moments to catch onto what you’re implying; when he does, his eyebrows shoot up and his breath catches. “Oh. O—okay. I’ll, um…” he glances down shyly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”</p><p>“You better.” You look over your shoulder as you leave, and the small smile he’s wearing prompts one of your own.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'd like to put it out there that i don’t hate jj and i really hope it didn’t come across like that. i hadn’t even planned that scene; it just wrote itself. i promise it’ll be resolved before the end of this fic. </p><p>another shoutout to the book The Body Keeps the Score for helping immensely with the planning and writing of this. </p><p>you can also find irl pictures of spencer’s therapy horse on my tumblr @specialagentsergio</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if you made it this far, thank you so much for reading. this was very much a personal work but i decided to share it anyways because why the hell not, i'm proud of it. the next chapter will explore horse therapy, a treatment i did and loved, among other things. </p><p>i'd like to encourage you please seek this kind of help if you think need it. i see how it changes lives every day at work and it changed my own as well. there's no shame in getting the treatment you need, whatever that may be. recovery is worth it. </p><p>if you’re interested in learning more about trauma and the treatment of it, i cannot recommend the book The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk, M.D., enough. it was my favorite book i read last year and i referred back to it several times while writing this.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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